


Nothing Bad Could Happen Here

by Tozette



Category: Digimon Adventure Zero Two | Digimon Adventure 02
Genre: M/M, Smut, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-24
Updated: 2013-03-24
Packaged: 2017-12-06 08:11:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/733458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tozette/pseuds/Tozette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At eight, Angemon had been awe-inspiring in a glittering, protective sort of way.</p><p>At sixteen, Takeru was a little bit dismayed to find out that the strong, flexible warmth of him made things low in his stomach curl up and purr.</p><p>Written in 2010. Smut. Angemon/Takeru. Ages amended for the collective peace of mind, so the underage tag is only accurate depending on where you are in the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing Bad Could Happen Here

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spring_gloom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spring_gloom/gifts).



> Written 2010 as a gift for the lovely spring_gloom. Suffering brief but noticeable departures from canon.

 

It was a bumpy ride between worlds, and Takeru had never quite gotten the hang of the landing. He stumbled, blinded by the bright light, even as he smelt the clean cold air of the digital world.

“I knew you couldn’t keep away!” Patamon’s high-pitched cry was the first thing he heard, and when his light-blind vision readjusted he had less than a second to prepare for the tiny digimon’s impact. He slammed into Takeru’s chest like a miniature cannonball, prompting startled laughter and a backwards stumble.

One arm windmilling, Takeru gave into gravity and flopped down in the grass of one of the digital world’s many idyllic forests.

“Hi,” he said then, breathlessly.

“Hi! It’s so good to see you again! Again-again," Patamon wriggled around on his lap, wings pumping furiously. “I was so happy when you came back again -- you’ve been gone for years and years and _years_ ,” he said after a few seconds, a little accusingly.

Takeru sat up and looked around. “It has been a while,” he admitted. It had been only days since he’d been dropped back into this place with a new set of chosen children -- but as dangerous as the digital world could sometimes be, he couldn’t keep away now that he knew he could go back anytime. He certainly couldn’t give up the chance to see Patamon again.

“I missed you too,” he said, squeezing him tightly like he had when he was a kid.

Patamon squirmed. “I may be digital, but I still need to breathe, Takeru,” he reminded him after this went on for a second.

Takeru laughed and let himself fall flat on his back. Patamon took wing and circled happily around his head.

“I can’t believe it’s been so long,” he sighed after a few seconds. This whole world had a hazy nostalgic feel - even though some of Takeru’s strongest memories of the digital world were reserved for his nightmares.

The thought crept up on him unbidden, and he crushed it quickly. He was older now - a lot older! Almost an adult - and he and Patamon could take care of themselves.

“You think it’s been long for you!”

“Mmm,” murmured Takeru, but he was looking at the bright blue sky through his half-closed eyelids. The foliage obscured some of it, lush and green and luxurious as it was almost everywhere in the digital world. It really was pretty here, when he wasn’t being chased by giant slavering monsters of one kind or other -- but it wasn’t as though that happened often.

Right on cue, a slavering monster burst through the forest and leapt at him.

There was a frozen second of shock, but then his nervous system kicked into high gear and Takeru leapt to his feet.

“Takeru! Run!” Patamon spat a bullet of compressed air at the creature, which it shook off with an alarming lack of concern.

Adrenalin zinging in a cold rush under his skin, Takeru ran.

“Of course,” he got out five minutes later, panting and breathless, as he and Patamon dodged and ducked through the forest. Trees and underbrush whipped by, becoming denser as they went. Dry twigs and leaves crackled underfoot. Behind them, some unknown but definitely virus-type digimon -- sort of feline-shaped, with big membranous wings and fire in its eye sockets -- leapt after them. “I come back to... digi-world and... the first thing... that happens--”

But Patamon wasn‘t listening. “ _Get down!_ ”

Well-accustomed to hearing that, Takeru responded the same way any of the original chosen children would: he dove for cover, scraping his elbows and knees in the underbrush and scrunching his eyes tightly closed.

A bright, soundless light flashed overhead. He could feel its heat on his skin. Patamon shrieked. Nearby, a tree exploded. Hot wind roared, chips of wood flew past with a sharp, eye-watering whistle. Smoke billowed.

“Patamon!”

“I’m here!” The small, furred body burrowed down beside him. “I can’t beat him like this,” he said, breathing hard as the wind whipped the dirt and grass furiously around them.

“Are we far enough away from one of those --” spires, towers, big black monoliths of evil and doom “-- things for you to--”

The digimon howled an awful feline yowl, and Takeru’s voice was drowned out in the noise. But they knew what he’d been saying, and they heaved themselves to their feet with new determination.

“I think so!” Patamon growled, his voice lost in the sudden startling whine of Takeru’s digivice -- which began to glow brightly.

Another blast from the cat-digimon sent them scrambling for cover.

“Patamon!”

The light infected his digimon, burning up the area around them in a bright wash of heat and sound. It was fast, and Patamon’s twisting shadow streamed against the trees.

Somewhere in the brightness before them, the cat-digimon growled at the sudden display.

When the light finally faded, it was replaced by a new glow. Angemon shone with a light all of his own. His six wings spread wide, and soft folds of blue cloth fluttered in the settling wind.

There was a low growl, and then before Takeru’s eyes had recovered, the cat-digimon opened his mouth and expelled a blast that ripped up clods of dirt and hurled Takeru straight through the foliage and into the sky.

The blast was bad enough, but Takeru had a lot of experience with being thrown around -- and he felt the sudden, lurching panic in his stomach when his momentum ended and, quite suddenly, he began to fall.

There was nothing quite like that sudden rush of wind, the blind terror and disorientation. Takeru screamed.

But the impact was a lot softer than he remembered. And a lot higher up.

“I’ve got you,” said Angemon’s calm, deep voice, and Takeru found one strong arm wrapped around his waist.

“Oh,” he said, dazedly. “That’s good.” He peered at the sky through a fringe of stiff white feathers.

The cat-digimon eyed them from the ground, wary now, and hissed. Then, abruptly, it turned tail and ran.

“He was just hungry,” said Angemon, relaxing as all traces of the creature swiftly vanished. “In times like these, food can become scarce -- and then other digimon start to look appetising.”

“Yeah, I guess so...” said Takeru, although he was a bit distracted. At eight, Angemon had been awe-inspiring in a glittering, protective sort of way.

At sixteen, Takeru was a little bit dismayed to find out that the strong, flexible warmth of him made things low in his stomach curl up and _purr_.

He had... well, he had very broad shoulders. And long limbs, all ropy muscle. And... and, hey, his wings weren’t moving, even though he was actually flying. Takeru wrenched his attention from the contemplation of his digimon’s lean-muscled thigh -- half-supporting him in the air -- to wonder how that worked.

Actually, older and less scared -- and, importantly, not running for his life -- Angemon was an object of curiosity. For a certain broad definition of ‘curiosity’.

They headed for the ground, and Angemon set him down and Takeru tried to ignore the soft sleek rub between them as he slid away. He eyed his hair. It looked awfully soft. The angel digimon turned to face his partner. “Takeru, we --” he paused suddenly at the tug. “Takeru? Please don’t pull my hair.”

It was not as silky-soft as it looked, thick and coarse like an animal’s mane, shining chestnut in the soft glow of Angemon’s power. “I wasn’t pulling,” he said, and dropped it. “Do you even have eyes under there?” he asked curiously.

The heavenly glowing stopped. Angemon’s heavy-soled boots made an odd crunch when he brought all of his weight to the ground. “Of course I have eyes.” He sounded startled. “What kind of question is that?”

“Well, you have no eye holes,” Takeru said, quite logically. It occurred to him that he’d probably have been better off asking about Angemon’s vision _before_ he'd asked the digimon to fire off an arrow into his big brother.

Hmm.

Hindsight.

“Don’t worry, Takeru. I can see just fine.”

“Through your mask,” Takeru said.

“...Yes.”

“I suppose if you can turn from a ten-pound flying pig into a person-sized angel, there’s no point arguing about physics.”

“I am not a pig, Takeru,” said Angemon patiently, in a tone of a thing said many times before. “Besides, you hate physics.” Then he sighed softly. “I think the digital world might be a dangerous place for you right now. Perhaps you’d better go home.”

Takeru shifted on his feet. “I sort of wanted...” he paused.

“I know.” Angemon leaned in close enough that Takeru could smell him. He almost expected to smell shampoo and soap, but Angemon smelled like static, and something soft and clean. “I missed you, too.”

Under the deep shadow of his half-mask, Takeru caught a glint of bright blue. Angemon smiled. It was a warm, friendly, wholesome sort of smile. Takeru felt vaguely guilty.

Vaguely.

He licked his lips. “...I don’t think I can fit you in my backpack.”

 

 

Three hours later, Angemon was peering at the foliage of a stunted pine listing drunkenly in its pot in the corner of Takeru’s living room. “I didn’t think you usually had trees in your houses.”

“Uh, well, it’s December... and it’s a custom,” he explained. “We should really decorate that thing, or something. At least put a star or an angel on the top,” he muttered, dumping his school bag by the door.

“An angel? On that?” His helm hid his face, but Angemon’s voice sounded a little bit disturbed. “...Where do the spiky branches go?” he wondered worriedly.

“A little one, like this big,” Takeru smiled, holding his forefinger and thumb a few inches apart to demonstrate. “In ceramic or plastic or something.” He laughed quietly at the twist of Angemon’s mouth, but his digimon nodded, perfectly accepting of humans and their bizarre traditions.

“Because... angels are cool?”

He thought about that for a second, wondering why such a large proportion of the world celebrated a holiday they didn’t actually believe in. He wasn’t about to try explaining it to Angemon. “Yeah,” he agreed, tugging his hat off. He stood on tip-toe to pop it on the top of the tree. “Because angels are cool.”

“Excellent. Is your room still back there?”

“It didn’t fall through a portal to another dimension,” Takeru confirmed, following curiously as Angemon padded toward his room. “Uh... it’s kind of a mess,” he warned.

“It’s always a mess. Hey, the furniture moved. Wow, it is messy.”

The room was dark, less because Takeru was interested in growing fungus and more because he just hadn’t seen the point in opening the blinds -- which were dusty, anyway. The bed was unmade - what was the point in making his bed, if he was just going to sleep there again the next night, anyway? There was manga scattered across the floor, dirty laundry shoved (sort of) into a corner, textbooks and half-finished homework scattered across the desk, and a series of cups cluttering any available area.

“Uh, yeah,” said Takeru slowly. “I’ll clean it up eventually,” he muttered, sidling past his digimon. “Take a seat,” he suggested, pointing to the desk chair, which only had one old t-shirt draped across it.

He took the bed, and when Angemon sat, they were very close. He stared at the skintight white of Angemon’s clothing, eyes crawling irresistably to where the drape of blue fabric dipped into the shadows between his thighs.

“You actually know how to do this stuff?” Angemon asked, jerking Takeru from his reflections.

He stared at the maths book he was holding out, feeling vaguely ashamed but mostly just restless and confused -- in a hard-edged, palm-sweating, tongue-tied sort of way that probably wasn’t about being restless, after all.

“Oh,” he said, reading, _...has an infinite number of non-recurring decimal_ s, from the page Angemon was looking at. “Irrational numbers. Yeah.” He paused. “Well, no. Not really. It’s complicated.”

Angemon moved his expectant gaze from Takeru to the book. “Seems like it,” he agreed slowly. Then he turned a beaming smile on Takeru.

It was strange, and familiar, and Takeru felt his face flush and his throat close up. He blinked his eyes wide. “I really missed you,” he said.

Angemon put the book down and reached out to embrace him. Takeru was roughly pulled closer, and he threw his arms about his digimon’s neck and sniffled quietly and knew that Angemon would not bring up the crying thing.

It took him a few long moments of hugging and inhaling the smells of burnt ozone and static and the soft, clean smell of Angemon before he realised he was actually halfway in his lap. But it was okay, because it was Angemon, and Angemon wouldn’t mind; never minded, really, unless Takeru was mean or disloyal or hurt somebody he shouldn’t.

With his head pressed against the hard metal edge of his helmet, Takeru reached out and touched the heavy-boned edge of one of Angemon’s wings. The feathers weren’t soft like the ones used in pillow-stuffing: these were flight feathers, long and stiff. He traced remiges with his fingertips.

After a moment, he returned to clinging to Angemon’s neck, and sighed with his mouth pressed hard against his shoulder.

Angemon’s hand, very naturally, shifted to Takeru’s waist, where his thumb rubbed small circles. It had probably been gentle and comforting some seven years back. Now it just made him edgy and restless - the kind of restless that made him squirm closer until he was curled in Angemon’s arms, inhaling his skin and feeling electric and hot with strange nervous tension.

He felt like Angemon’s warm breath sliding down the back of his shirt kicked his nerves into overdrive. He could feel it on his ear, and almost shivered with the urge to lean in. It raised goosebumps on his skin. He moved closer.

“Takeru.”

“Mmm?” he mumbled, squirming a little and hoping Angemon just went with it instead of asking awkward questions. This was ridiculous. It was immature and stupid and he was sure it was also pretty taboo to be twitching for the sexual touch of a digimon, even from Angemon -- and he really, really wanted it.

“What are we doing?”

“We’re...” Takeru stopped when he realised his voice was scratchy. “Touching,” he croaked, finally. “I really missed you.”

“Is it upsetting you? You’re breathing very quickly.”

“No. I’m not upset.”

“Okay,” said Angemon, relaxing into the seat. After a second, he said, “You know you usually do this sort of touching with other humans, don’t you?”

Takeru blinked and pulled back, just a little.

Angemon sat up a bit straighter, looking slightly concerned that maybe Takeru _didn’t_ know. “Human women, most often,” he said. His voice was, as ever, low and careful and very calm. “I did think you knew,” he said cautiously.  
  
“...I do know,” said Takeru, a bit sharply. “But I...” he stopped, struggling for words. “It’s just...”

“But you would prefer to do this with me.” He sounded very certain, and Takeru wondered what it was like to have such a straightforward understanding of the world. Or maybe just a straightforward understanding of Takeru.

Takeru, who said nothing.

Angemon’s lips curved. “That’s okay, too,” he assured him.

Takeru swallowed. “It is?”

Angemon laughed, a clear, bright, wholesome sort of noise that Takeru could feel rumbling in his chest. “It’s just me. And you. Nothing bad could happen here,” he pointed out, running one gloved hand through Takeru’s hair.

Takeru relaxed a little himself. He didn’t need to explain, he didn’t need to feel awfully guilty. “Okay,” he said, and leaned in closer. Their teeth clacked jarringly, and he had to spare a moment to avoid mashing his face against the cold edge of Angemon’s helmet, but eventually they were kissing, tongues moving in a way that was subtly, but increasingly interesting.

And all he could think was that he wanted to be touched. “Come here.”

He had a fistfull of blue cloth, the swathe wrapped around Angemon’s arm, and he moved away and tugged him closer, closer -- and they tumbled together on the bed. It was old with occasional jagged springs, and too small for all of Angemon’s long limbs, let alone his wingspan. They made do.

Unsteady, half-afraid to touch, Takeru went for the helmet and tugged it away. His hands were sweaty and left smudgy prints on the heavy metal. It hit the floor with an uncompromising thud.

His hair was flattened, coarse chestnut, faintly sweaty. He reached one hand up to move it out of his eyes. Takeru caught his hand and clung to it, hard.

Angemon had blue eyes, flat and glossy and depthless. They blinked slowly, calmly.

Takeru could feel a heartbeat. It was a slow, strong thud. From the shivering weight of anxiety -- hard, anticipatory, frightened, uncertain -- coiled in his own chest, it wasn’t Takeru’s.

Angemon’s hand was trapped, clutched in a deathgrip. He tugged the glove from his left hand with his teeth. Takeru watched, his eyes fixed on Angemon’s even, white teeth as they tugged the fingers loose.

He swallowed.

“Takeru?”

“Please don’t ask any difficult questions,” he decided then, and leaned forward. His nerve failed him about an inch from Angemon’s mouth, and they were sharing breath and so close it would have been more natural to touch.

His thumb rubbed over Takeru’s knuckles. The strange friction felt awfully intimate. He shook the other hand free of its glove and let it slap gently on the floor.

“It wasn’t a difficult question. I was just going to say that if you want me to take off any more clothing, you’re going to have to help me get it over my wings,” he said with a little smile.

“Take off... more clothing?” Right. Takeru swallowed again and his mouth felt dry and rough. “Oh. Right.”

“That’s all.” Angemon’s blue eyes watched him placidly as he processed this information for a second longer, and then he leaned forward and met his mouth halfway. It was better this time, a lot better: less mashing faces and clacking teeth; more of the soft friction of moving tongues.

Takeru steadied himself with a hand against Angemon’s jaw. His fingers had motives of their own and they slid over the white, thin fabric of his clothing, wondering at every solid dip and curve of muscle. His stomach was tense, muscles trembling; his waist was strong and curved just enough.

Angemon’s hands weren’t callused and rough the way they should have been, and it came as something of a surprise when they slid, almost frictionless, under Takeru’s shirt. He drew back in a fall of coarse hair.

“You have blue eyes,” Takeru told him, and closed his own as those soft hands trailed over his neck.

“I thought I might,” Angemon said, and pressed his mouth to Takeru’s throat.

His lips slid down his neck, teeth gently scraped; Takeru made a strange, uncertain noise. It was Angemon’s sure hands under his clothes, Angemon’s slick, hot tongue sliding across his skin, and it was strange but good and not enough. He felt confused and uncertain and guilty-anxious, but none of these feelings were strong enough to outweigh the driving desire to get _closer_.

He kicked his leg over Angemon’s thigh. It was lean and hard with muscle and really warm, even through his shorts.

He moved closer, and then Angemon went tense and he could feel why, his own eyes suddenly wide. Against his thigh, pressed hard there -- hard, operative word; don’t laugh, Takeru -- he squeezed his eyes shut again and slid a hand down Angemon’s stomach - hard, shaking abdominals - and over his crotch, where he could feel the heat of his erection.

Angemon’s bright eyes closed, opened again. His mouth stopped against Takeru’s neck.

Angemon had an erection. And Takeru’s hand was on top of it, his thumb following the shape of his penis under the fabric. It was bizarre. It was embarrassing. It was surreal. And all he could think was a frightened, panicked: ‘my hand is on Angemon’s penis and he likes it’.

Tension made his fingers tighten, and he could see the digimon’s eyes glaze, mouth slacken; his breathing hastened and that strong, sure pulse kicked into high gear. His hand was on Angemon’s penis, _and he liked it_.

Bright, certain want sucker-punched him in the gut. Takeru’s mouth went dry and his skin went hot.

Angemon licked his lips. “I...”

“Kiss me.” There was a hard edge in his voice and he saw the surprise in Angemon’s sudden blink, but they moved together, and the kiss was friction and heat, slick and wet and Angemon’s tongue was in his mouth, and Takeru’s hand was sliding, gentle squeezing, uncertain.

They were breathless when they parted. Angemon’s eyes were all dark, a thin ring of blue iris almost swallowed by his pupils.

“Move,” said Angemon. Awkward together, they scooted back, Takeru stretching his legs out on the bed.

Angemon pushed him down with a hand on his stomach and crawled closer. Takeru stared at the strong, clean structure of his face and his spit-slick lips, and then he was pulling Takeru’s shirt over his head and his mouth was fixed again, lips on his neck and hands -- hands on his flat stomach, twisting sensitive paths up his skin.

Takeru exhaled shakily, unsure if he wanted to pull away or move closer to the blunt teeth scraping the skin of his collarbone. There was a white-clothed thigh between his legs, sliding against his own erection -- he had an erection, in front of another living person, and he was going to _die_ of the humiliation later, but he didn’t care. His feet scrambled across the blankets, itching for purchase.

Angemon’s hair was silky and cold and it dragged against his chest, a sharp contrast to the stiff, rough feeling of his feathers. He could smell the staticky scent of Angemon’s hair. He felt over-stimulated. Everything looked fever bright and harsh in stark contrasts. His skin felt swollen and too hot.

“Up,” he said, shortly, out of breath -- panting, really, even though Angemon had been nothing but gentle, careful even now with his breath coming hard and his face flushed with -- with something Takeru didn’t have a word for, exactly. “You...” he inhaled again. Breathing was important. “Your clothes,” he said.

Angemon blinked, slowly, once, and obeyed without question. He slouched back, painfully graceful, and began removing garments in an orderly fashion. He folded them, dropped them beside the bed carefully. It was a strange, pedantic strip. Takeru watched and felt his face flush harder.

“I need you to help me.”

Takeru was very quick to move and help him wrestle the stretchy white fabrics over his wings. “Ow,” said Angemon, at one particularly hard tug. Feathers littered the bedcovers.

With a final frustrated yank, Takeru pulled the material free, but the momentum spilt him over the side of the bed. He hit the hard floor and blinked at the ceiling. “Oww,” he said.

Angemon’s bright blue eyes blinked at him over the edge of the bed. “Takeru?”

“I’m okay! I’m okay. Just...” he sat up and blinked.

It had occurred to him, but now he really knew that Angemon was mostly muscle under that clothing. Muscle and feathers. He reached up and tugged a stray one free of the rest.

Angemon was not looking terribly impressed with his acrobatics. “I think you should get back on the bed, Takeru,” he said, and offered him a hand. His voice was deeper than it had been a few moments ago, and his eyes were definitely darker.

Takeru took it, and Angemon tugged him back, closer -- and now he was wearing nothing at all and Takeru couldn’t just feel his erection, he could see it, the other man’s penis flushed and heavy with blood, and even as he reached out for it his brain took up a strange, hysterical mantra of: _Angemon’s penis! Angemon’s penis! I am touching Angemon’s penis!_

“Oh,” he said, feeling his eyes widen. “Your skin’s so soft,” and he realised it was dumb even when he said it, because whose skin wasn’t soft _there_? But his fingers slipped around Angemon’s erection and his skin was like warm-muscled velvet under his hand, but hard under that, definitely hard. Angemon made a soft, quiet noise in response.

He shivered and pulled Takeru closer, inexorably, and Takeru was briefly surprised by the sense of how much stronger Angemon was.

“That’s good. Move,” he said, and his voice was rough. Takeru obligingly wrapped his fingers more firmly around his erection, slid his hand carefully up -- up, and Angemon made a quiet sigh and his head tipped forward, teeth pressed against Takeru’s shoulder as his breath hissed. In and then out, unsteady but in time.

Angemon removed one hand from his shoulder. It slid, nails scraping, down his shoulder, over his ribs, and Takeru twitched under the pressure of those thin scratches. Angemon’s fingers flicked the button on his shorts deftly, without missing a beat, and he tugged on the fabric -- and it was pointed, what he wanted, it wasn’t like they had to say anything.

Takeru paused to scramble out of his own shorts, and then a hazy-eyed Angemon was crawling over him, pushing him into the mattress and pressing hands to his hips with his teeth biting his ear gently. One hand was crawling over his thigh -- Takeru could see it, white and creeping, like a pale determined spider, and he felt his lips part and he closed his eyes as it inched closer, and then Angemon’s hand was curled around Takeru’s erection, fingers sliding smoothly over sweat-slick skin and sparse hair.

“Oh, yes,” he said to nothing in particular, and further voiceless mumbles eventuated, until Angemon decided to lean closer and slide his tongue over Takeru’s lips. He arched closer, but Angemon drew away, and Takeru’s stomach muscles tensed as he tried to follow, like a puppet pulled by a string.

Angemon’s fingers squeezed around his penis. Takeru panted, took a hold of a handful of Angemon’s long hair and pulled him down, forward and down, until their mouths collided messily, teeth clicking.

Heat curled low in his stomach. “That’s good,” he said, his hand clutching at the hair, gathering it at the back of Angemon’s neck. His arm shook as he arched back, and Angemon followed the pressure of his hand, mouth sliding down his neck, even as his hands found a careful rhythm between their bodies. Takeru could feel the hard pressure of the digimon’s erection sliding against his thigh, and all he could think was _yes -- like that -- more_ \-- “Oh -- like that. I. Closer,” he panted.

There was a low, rumbling response from Angemon, whose teeth were digging into his collarbone. He could hear him breathing, hoarse and sharp, and his own heart slammed against his breastbone.

“ _Yes_ ,” Takeru sighed, clinging harder to Angemon when his vision dissolved in sparks. His voice must have gotten rougher, but he couldn’t think, couldn’t see; he responded blind and unthinking with his thighs clinging hard to Angemon’s leg and semen spilling slippery between them.

“Oh,” he said, staring at the ceiling, when his brain came back online. He was still breathing heavily, struggling to think clearly.

Angemon’s fingertips were trailing slowly, soothingly down his chest. “Shh,” he said, and leaned down to lick the salty sweat from the bend of Takeru’s neck.

Takeru felt dizzy.

He could also feel the hard pressure of Angemon’s erection against his leg. He turned his head for a kiss, one that felt better, more natural and lazy and all soft lips and not too much saliva and tongues that were getting the hang of this kissing business.

“Roll over,” Takeru said, and Angemon obeyed, twisting onto his back. His wings made the movement awkward, but when he was on his back it was fine.

He was open and relaxed as Takeru hovered over him. His hand slid over Angemon’s ribs. It was hard to muster the same degree of anxiousness as he’d felt before. Whatever it was that they were doing -- sex, his brain supplied without much concern, they were having sex; Takeru was having sex with his digimon -- it didn’t matter. Angemon was human enough for this, and it was very nice, and Takeru felt a shivery, smug sort of pride at every reaction he could draw out of him.

It felt good to lean down and curiously bite at one of Angemon’s nipples, prompting a startled little noise, even as his hands slid further down, over the hard edges of his hip bones.

He could almost see the low, warm, feeling coiling behind Angemon’s steady eyes when he coiled his hands around his erect penis. “This is okay, right?” he asked then.

“Yes,” said Angemon, and it was all Takeru needed, his hand tightened over Angemon’s erection, just a little, and drew -- pulled all the way up its shaft -- and Angemon clung, and blinked at the ceiling above their heads and his low, certain voice melted into a hard-edged slur of words, a jumbled repetition of, _yes, like that, please, yes._

His fingers curled into Takeru’s hair and the pressure felt good on his scalp. The faint tremor in them was even better because this sense of power was heady, dizzying; this powerful creature was clinging to him with his voice low and broken and repeating Takeru’s name like a mantra.

His muscles stretched and shifted and strained, and even if Takeru hadn’t been able to feel him coming in the warm spill across his fingers, he’d have seen it in the way Angemon tensed and then relaxed so totally under him, whimpered deep in his throat and melted into the covers like his bones were made of water.

And then he was blinking and panting and his lips were parted and dry and no noise was coming out, just his fingers in Takeru’s hair.

Takeru looked down at him with a smile that was one part victorious and two parts self-satisfied smugness, and Angemon pulled him down, down and closer by his shoulder. “That was good,” he said in the same simple, certain tone he used for nearly everything he said.

“Yeah,” said Takeru after a second’s hesitation. “It was.” But now he was exhausted, and it was late anyway, and he didn’t think he could be bothered cleaning up. “I want to sleep,” he said.

“So sleep,” said Angemon. “I’ll still be here in the morning.” He hooked an arm around Takeru and pulled him close. He was warm, and strong, and all loose, delicious muscle.

Takeru sighed softly. “Okay,” he agreed, and sagged against him. Angemon tossed the covers over Takeru’s shoulder, and that was pretty much the last thing he remembered.

 

 

The next morning, Takeru didn’t even really think about it, at first.

“Takeru! _Ta-ke-ru_!” Sunlight streamed onto his face, and soft, membranous wings buffeted his bare chest. “Wake _up_ , Takeru!”

And suddenly, he was awake. He was awake and it wasn’t where he wanted to be at all. He thought about swatting Patamon until he was quiet and _went away_ , but that was mean. And anyway, Patamon tended to bounce back like a poorly-aimed rubber band.

There was sunlight in his eyes, and the sharp rattle of somebody’s feet thudding on the metal walkway of their apartment complex, just a thin pane of glass away.

Was that Daisuke yelling? Why did he have to be so _noisy_?

“Takeru!” Patamon’s voice jolted him into full, cranky consciousness, and then he blinked. It was a school morning, and Daisuke running around outside yelling like that meant...

“Aaah!” He shot out of bed, scrambling for his clothing. “I’m late!”

“You wouldn’t be late if you’d woken up the first twelve times I tried!” Patamon’s high, aggrieved voice followed him as he stumbled out of his bedroom, snatching up the bag dumped next to the doorway as he went.

 _I had sex with my digimon_ , he realised in a spare second. His eyes flicked to Patamon wonderingly. It seemed strange and improper to think those thoughts about Patamon. He swallowed.

Later than _Daisuke_ , he reminded himself then, jamming his feet into shoes at the door and pounding down the steps of the apartment complex. He hit the pavement running, and garnered a few odd stares as Patamon zoomed after him, diving into his crumpled schoolbag.

There would be time to think about all this weird, confusing stuff later. Right now it was just him, and Patamon, and they were going to be so late.


End file.
